The Sum of its Parts
by obsessedwithstabler
Summary: They're both equipped for this world. They'd come together in this place full of fear and loss and for the first time in their lives found a sense of belonging and safety. Cowritten with Printdust.
1. Alcohol

Hi, everyone! This collaborative work cowritten with PrintDust was originally posted under her profile, but we decided to move it to mine. For those of you who don't know, this is a collection of oneshots revolving around the enigmatic relationship between Daryl and Carol. Their backgrounds are quite similar and fascinating. Most of these will contain no overt Caryl, but if you squint hard and tilt your head, you may be able to see just a little. Haha. There will be one chapter for each letter of the alphabet (Alcohol, Bruises, etc). The first chapter is **Printdust's. **Read on and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Alcohol**

He'd grown up with the smell of cigarettes and stale wine clinging everything around him: to the worn carpets, the stained fabrics that covered their furniture, his own clothes, and the kisses that she pressed to his head when she was sober enough to get out of bed. She'd wander through their trailer, her robe opened to expose her nakedness, a Virginia Slim dangling from her thin fingers on one hand, the neck of a cheap bottle of wine in the other. She'd laugh and tell him she was Joan Crawford or Elizabeth Taylor and throw herself down on the couch, one prickly leg draped over its soiled arm.

When Merle was home he'd throw a blanket at her and tell her to cover up, that she was a disgusting whore. But when it was just him he'd hang his head and avoid looking at her titties; ashamed by his own embarrassment.

When she'd died the smell had gone away.

When he got older, sometimes he sought it out, in the back booth at a hole-in-the wall bar, a cold beer and an empty ashtray on the sticky varnished table before him. He'd run his hands over the crusty velveteen seat and think about Joan Crawford, Virginia Slims and cheap wine.

* * *

Ed hadn't always been the man that he was at the end of his life. When she'd met him, barefoot and sitting on the tailgate of Toby Walton's blue Ford pick-up he'd been the most handsome boy in town. The girls had giggled behind her when he found his way over to her, backlit by a bonfire, his letterman jacket slung over one shoulder and an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

They'd stood close enough that her knees touched his stomach and she'd looked over her shoulder to Becky Holler for approval. Her friend had nodded and turned back to the girls, though she continued to watch the pair out of the corner of her eye.

Carol had felt like she was Joan Crawford or something that Fall back at school. Everyone had wanted to know if it was true- if she was really dating Ed Peletier. If she would go with him when he went to Texas to go pro. She'd blushed and told them she would go anywhere that he wanted to- if he asked her.

She'd kept good on her promise and followed him all the way to a leaky trailer next to the communal bathroom in a pad rental park in Murphy, North Carolina.

At almost seventeen she had become his wife in a backyard ceremony, her Mama's dress let out at the waist to hide her swollen pregnant belly.

Before their baby was even born he'd changed- become angry and bitter towards her and their life together. He'd gone from football star to armchair quarterback- from a man of honour to a man who barely stayed sober long enough after work to change out of his motor-oil stained jumpsuit and collapse on the couch.

Their lives had become a dance of violence and they moved together to the tune of a blaring television set, crowds cheering for people who had done the things that Ed said they would do one day.

Late at night, when he'd collapsed in their bed she'd kneel on the floor with a bucket of water and vinegar and scrub beer and blood stains from the carpet and she'd dream about a man of honour.


	2. Bruises

Up now, obsessedwithstabler. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Bruises**

"Daryl! Get yer fuckin' ass in here!"

Daryl Dixon shivered in his place under his bed. At the tender age of seven, he had seen and felt more pain than any child should feel. His tiny body, severely undersized for his age, was a canvas of bruises and scars. Merle usually protected him from their father's wrath, but he was away again and Daryl was alone with their father.

The bedroom door flew open, slamming the wood off its hinges. Daryl scooted closer to the wall, his entire body trembling.

"Where tha hell are ya, boy?"

The stench of stale cigarettes and booze filled the room. The floorboards creaked ominously under the large man's weight.

There was a moment of silence, then a large hand gripped Daryl's arm with crushing strength. The boy cried out as he was dragged from under the bed and thrown to the floor like a ragdoll.

"Shut up, ya little pussy!" his father sneered. "Dixons don't cry."

Daryl sniffled and curled into a ball, bracing himself for the beating he knew was coming.

His father's boot connected with the side of his head, and he knew no more.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning, Merle was released from juvie and raced home. His old man had been alone with his brother for weeks, and he was almost afraid of what he would find.

He let himself into the house with ease. His father was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he had shacked up with a whore or was off on another binge. Whatever. Merle ran up the stairs and to the bedroom he shared with his little brother.

"Daryl? Where are ya?"

He opened their bedroom door and searched the room. When he finally spotted Daryl, his heart sank. "Aw, kid…"

Daryl was lying on the floor beneath the window. Every inch of his skin was mottled with purple and greenish bruises.

Swearing softly, Merle crossed the floor and leaned down, gathering his little brother into his arms. "C'mon, lil bear." Lil Bear was the nickname he had given Daryl when Daryl started walking. He never used it around their father, but when they were alone, it was just what he called Daryl.

Daryl stirred and moaned softly. "Merle…"

Merle hesitated, but only briefly. He was barely seventeen and the only good parent Daryl really known. "Yeah, Bear. I'm here."

His brother buried his face in his chest, allowing Merle a glimpse of bruising on Daryl's neck. The clear impression of an adult hand stood out starkly against the boy's pale skin.

Merle's face darkened.

Bruises were a part of their lives. But when their father stumbled in that night, Merle was waiting for him with a baseball bat and an evil smile.

* * *

"Stupid, worthless cow!"

Her head slammed to the side as his fist connected with her jaw. The taste of iron swelled in her mouth and her knees buckled, but she somehow remained upright. This was nothing new. Tomorrow she would be covered with fresh bruises, which she would attempt to cover with foundation and long sleeves in the southern heat.

Eventually the blows ceased and Ed wandered off, presumably to get drunk or find one of his whores to spend the night with. Though she felt she shouldn't have been, Carol was grateful when he left. If he wasn't around, she didn't have to worry about dodging blows or getting his dinner on the table in time. On those nights, she could do laundry in peace or help her little girl with her homework.

At the mere thought of Sophia, Carol's physical pain ebbed. Sophia was the one speck of brightness in her dark, cruel world. She had always wanted to be a mother. It took several miscarriages and one stillborn birth, but eventually God blessed her with Sophia. For the nine months she was pregnant, she had been worried and cautious. Even Ed seemed to stay away from her. Then Sophia was born perfectly healthy, and Carol's world became just a little better.

Coming back to the present, Carol stumbled to the kitchen sink and spat out a mouthful of blood. Then she rinsed out her mouth as best as she could and washed her face. Once she was halfway presentable, she made her way upstairs to check on Sophia.

XXXXXXX

The next morning, Carol tried not to flinch as she applied a heavy foundation to the bruises on her face. Ed used to be careful about avoiding her face with his fists, but that was fifteen years ago and now he just didn't care who saw her bruises.

"Mama?"

Carol smiled softly as Sophia came into her bedroom. Her little arms were clutching a doll she had been given when she was four or five. "Hi, baby."

Sophia's eyes were piercing and revealed a depth of knowledge other children her age didn't have. "Daddy hit you again?"

Those four words struck Carol harder than a physical blow and left more damage in their wake. It was then and there she decided that she had to leave Ed, for Sophia's sake. She couldn't bear the thought of Sophia believing this was an acceptable way to live. It wasn't. Times were different now. She had once stayed with Ed out of necessity, out of a twisted, misguided train of thought that an abusive daddy was better than no daddy for her little girl.

Sophia came closer and Carol pulled her into her arms, hugging her tightly. Ed had never laid a hand on Sophia because Carol hadn't let him. But the way he had been looking at her lately made Carol sick to her stomach. To do what he did to her was one thing, but if he ever raised a hand to Sophia in any capacity…

Carol caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and despite the layers of concealer she had applied to her face and neck, she could still see the bruises littering her face and arms.

No amount of concealer in the world could hide them anymore.


	3. Comfort

Now up, PrintDust. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Comfort**

The baby, less than a day old, slept soundly against his shoulder, her tiny arms folded across her chest and bundled there by the yellow blanket that she bad been swaddled in. Her soft head lulled against the side of his neck as she breathed steadily, exhausted by her dramatic entry into the world. Daryl closed one of his hands around her tiny fist and sighed, laying his head back against the wall. His eyes drifted shut as his mind became sluggish, easing him into the early stages of sleep.

His ears suddenly perked up at the sound of footsteps above him and he opened his eyes to see a figure appear in one of the cells. He recognized it immediately as Carl, who had crashed several hours before, wrapped up in Beth's arms.

Daryl kept still as he watched the boy slip out onto the walkway and tip-toe towards him, then pause a few cells down. He hovered there outside of the dark room, his arms dropped to his sides as he stares into the place where his mother had slept. Daryl held his breath as he watched Carl slip into the cell.

He glanced around C-block for someone else, and then realized it was just him. There was no Lori, Carol, or Rick. Slowly, he got to his feet, careful not to wake the sleeping baby in his arms. When he reached the cell where Carl had entered, he paused and hung outside the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. His eyes slowly adjusted to the limited lighting until he could make out Carl's slumped shape sitting on the bottom bunk, a pink knitted blanket bunched up in his hands.

He cleared his throat and stepped into the room in time to hear Carl sniff and take a deep, controlled breath. Daryl searched for something to say, and then settled on, "You should be sleepin'."

Carl nodded and carefully placed the blanket back on the bed, taking a moment to run his hands over the fabric and smooth it back into place.

"Why don't'cha sleep here?" Daryl suggest, tilting his head as he watched the boy get to his feet.

The boy shook his head and stepped back. "I don't want to ruin it. In case I need it later."

Daryl nodded with understanding and placed his hand on Carl's shoulder in a silent gesture of comfort. The teenage looked up to meet his eyes with a solemn expression on his face.

"Best get some sleep," Daryl said again and nodded towards the door. Once he was alone he turned back to the bunk and reached out, his fingers connecting with the neatly made top-bunk. A sad smile was born, then died on his lips and he turned to leave the cell.

* * *

The night settled over the prison like black ink, creating shadows in the corners of the rooms where the moonlight could not penetrate. She watched the teen sit against the wall, his knees bent and his head dropped low, his face hidden by the wide brim of his hat. He looked like again like the small boy that she had met no more than a year ago, grieving the father that he never thought he would see again.

Her heart ached for him and she climbed to her feet, ignoring her own protesting and weakened body. Her head ached from dehydration and exhaustion, but he could not resist going to him.

He looked up when he heard her bare feet padding against the cement as she approached his side, then slid down the cinder-block wall to join him.

"Hershel said you're supposed to be resting," Carl spoke, his voice low as though he didn't quite trust himself to speak.

Carol nodded, "He did. But I saw someone that looks like they could use a friend."

Carl's chin wavered and then his head fell until it connected with his chest. He sighed and tangled his fingers where they were draped over his bent knees. "I keep waiting for her to come back. It's stupid, but-," he shook his head and looked up at her again, tears clinging to his lower lashes.

"Oh, sweetheart," Carol moved closer to the boy and slid one arm around his shoulders while simultaneously removing his hat. He was stiff in her grasp but then melted into her, his arms winding around her waist as a sob tore from his chest. "Shhhhh," she soothed him, running her hand up and down the length of his back.

"I can't-," he pulled away and scrubbed at his cheeks with closed fists. "I can't do this. I need to be strong for Judith and my dad."

Carol felt her own throat swell and she reached out to touch his glistening cheek "You be strong tomorrow. Tonight you can cry."


	4. Death

Up now, obsessedwithstabler!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Death**

His first brush with death came when Daryl was just eight years old.

He was walking home from school as he usually did. When he was six, his dad decided he was old enough to walk the mile from the school to home, so he did. Merle was in middle school and too busy to fool around with walking his little brother home. Once another boy walked with him, but once he realized who Daryl's brother was, that was the end of walking with him.

So he walked alone, his shoulders hunched and his stomach rumbling noisily. He didn't like being alone, but if he said anything about it, his dad would have beat his ass. He didn't want that if he could avoid it.

One Friday in particular, Daryl was almost home when he heard a small whimpering sound. Curiosity got the better of him, so he followed the noise around the corner and behind a trash can.

The whining became louder and louder until Daryl found the source of the sound. A small dog looked up at him with big eyes.

A dog! Daryl had always wanted a dog since he had seen Old Yeller and Lassie. With a dog, he wouldn't be alone all the time. He grinned at the dog and slapped his hand against his leg. And just like that, Daryl wasn't alone anymore.

Knowing his father probably wouldn't let him keep the dog unless he could prove he was responsible, Daryl hid the dog in his closet and fed it scraps of whatever he could find. At night, he would curl up on the floor of his closet with his dog. He never named it; just having the warmth and something of his own was enough.

His plan worked through the weekend until he awoke Sunday morning to the sound of his father yelling. Daryl searched his room for his dog, but when he couldn't find him, he ran out and to the bathroom across the hall. The door was locked and water was running. Screaming, Daryl kicked at the door and pounded the wood with his tiny fists. He was young, but he knew whatever his father was doing wasn't good. Nothing his father ever did was good.

He was right. That night, tears ran down Daryl's filthy cheeks as he dug a hole in the backyard, beneath the shade of an old oak tree.

He never brought another pet home again.

* * *

Death was not a foreign concept to Carol Peletier.

Her mother had died when Carol was barely a teenager, and her father died just before she married Ed. If she hadn't been so caught up in her grief and loneliness, maybe she would have taken more time with the relationship. Maybe she never would have married Ed at all. But even in her darkest moments, she never regretted her marriage to Ed. Without Ed, she wouldn't have her precious Sophia, and a life without Sophia was a life she couldn't imagine.

Standing in her front yard, Carol crossed her arms over her chest and enjoyed the warm spring breeze. It was a good time of the year; neither too hot nor too cold, it was absolutely perfect.

Nearby, Sophia played in the grass, her soft giggles floating on the breeze. At two years old, she was already walking and talking fairly well. Carol watched her like a hawk because if anything happened to her little girl...

"Carol!"

Carol jumped as Ed's booming voice carried from inside the house. Instinctively she ran her hands over her arms. Sleeves covered the bruises from prying eyes, and at the beginning of the marriage, Ed had been careful to avoid her face and arms. But as time progressed, he seemed to care less and less who saw her bruises.

Those two seconds she was distracted would cost her dearly. By the time she looked at Sophia again, the toddler was on the road. Carol's mouth opened in a silent scream.

Her legs were like jell-o as she forced them to move and carry her across the grass. Time crawled to a stop and her chest heaved with the effort her lungs made to take in oxygen.

"Sophia!"

A large truck came into Carol's peripheral vision. She was still a few feet away from her daughter, who had sat down in the middle of the road.

"Sophia!" Carol's own voice was a foreign sound to her ears.

There was the sudden, sickening screech of rubber on asphalt, and bile rose in Carol's throat as she tried to move faster. She couldn't lose her baby. This wasn't happening.

A blur suddenly moved across the street and Sophia shrieked unceremoniously as she was yanked off the ground by a pair of strong hands.

Stunned, Carol stared in disbelief as the truck sped through the spot where Sophia had been just a split-second before.

Sophia's savior stepped onto the grass as Carol finally reached the side of the road. He was dirty and wearing ripped up blue jeans, and his stringy brown hair fell carelessly into his azure eyes. No more than eighteen or nineteen years old, he carried himself as though he had already seen too much in this life.

"This yers?" he muttered, shoving Sophia into her arms.

Carol nodded, her arms instinctively holding her crying daughter to her chest. "Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you so much."

"Yeah...whatever." With a shake of his head, he started back across the road.

Carol watched him go, every part of her filled with relief. "Thank you," she called out.

The man looked over his shoulder and scowled. "Try ta keep a eye on her next time."

The man crossed the road and disappeared from Carol's sight, but his words stuck with her for years to come.

She would not lose her baby again.


	5. Excuses

PrintDust's turn! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Excuses**

People were dangerous and were not to be trusted. Daryl had learned that lesson when he'd barely been knee high, sitting in the backseat of a strangers car watching the police haul his daddy off the front lawn. The window, almost too tall for him to see out of, fogged with each breath he took, obscuring his view.

He looked over at the woman sitting in the front seat and listened to the sound of her pen scratching as she took notes on a clipboard. His mother, hysterical on the front porch was forced to sit on the step by a female EMT. The woman cupped her cheek and pushed greasy blood and tear-soaked hair off his mother's cheek to inspect her battered face.

"What happened tonight?" The lady in the front seat turned around to ask him, her dark eyes imploring his.

Daryl tore his eyes away from his parents and slumped down in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, your mom doesn't want to press charges, do you know what that means?" She asked, tossing her clip-board onto the seat next to her.

Daryl shook his head, ignoring his long hair as it fell into his eyes.

"It means there isn't anything we can do to help you," she explained, pushing her door open to get out of the car. She slammed it, making him flinch at the sudden sound. He cringed again when she opened the door and crouched down beside him. Reaching out she touched his cheek and turned her face to meet his. "You can tell me if he hurts you."

He shook his head, pushing her hand away from his, his older brother's words still fresh in his mind.

"Don't tell the police nothin'. They ain't good for shit except fuckin' everythin' up worse."

The woman sighed and caught his hand in his. "What about this?" She asked, tracing the decoration of purple, blue and green on his upper arm. "Want to tell me what happened to your arm?"

Daryl looked down at her hands, so gentle and careful. "Tripped and fell down a goddamn ravine," he mumbled the excuse, brushing her hand away. "Ain't ya never heard o' a' accident?"

* * *

"Accidents happen, Mrs…." Carol trailed off and stepped back to allow the Social Worker into her home. Her eyes drifted over the woman's starched suit and briefcase.

The woman turned to face her, one pointed shoe sticking out as she shifted her stance and offered her business card between two perfectly manicured fingers. "Theresa," she answered, her eyes drifting around the run-down but clean living-room. "Sophia has a lot of accidents," Theresa continued, leaving Carol to read her card.

Carol tucked the card into the pocket of her pants. "She's an active and curious girl."

Theresa took a careful seat on the edge of the sofa and crossed her legs decidedly, her gaze turning away from the pictures on the walls to inspect Carol carefully. "I'm sure… Carol- can I call you Carol?"

"Mrs. Peletier will be fine," Carol answered stiffly, hugging herself for warmth and comfort. "And if you don't believe me you can ask Sophia yourself."

Theresa looked down, for the first time her eyes betraying her sadness. Carol fizzled at the pity.

"My husband will be home soon and I need to get on with my day- if there isn't anything else," Carol opened the door.

The Social Worker got to her feet and stepped through the door. Slipping her sunglasses on her face she offered Carol a warm but guarded smile. "Please call me," she indicated Carol's pocket with the tip of her chin. "I'm here to help."

Her head shook and her eyes dropped to the stoop in shame. Carol knew that she was a good mother, a good person, but she wasn't a very brave one. Sighing, she closed the door and went into the kitchen to dispose of the card.


	6. Faith

obsessedwithstabler up now!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Faith**

His mom went to church every Sunday.

Rain or shine, healthy or sick, every Sunday morning she got up and put on a nice dress. Then she dressed him and Merle in old hand-me-downs and took them down to the church a few blocks from their home. His dad never came, but Daryl liked it that way. He didn't have to worry about anyone smacking him at church.

They went to church every week until Daryl was almost eleven. His mama burned to death on a Friday, and the following Sunday a small service was held. There had been nothing to bury; Daryl was left with an empty hollow feeling at the sight of the small gravestone.

Emma Jean Dixon

1950-1985

Wife and Mother

He had stayed there for hours, just staring at the gravestone. His mama was gone, burned to nothing in her bed. It wasn't right, but at the same time, Daryl was sort of glad. His daddy wouldn't be able to beat on her anymore. He wouldn't have to see the sad look in her eyes, and she wouldn't be in pain anymore.

After a while, he finally went home. Merle wasn't in the house, but their daddy was waiting on him with a bottle of whiskey and an old leather belt.

Daryl never went to church again.

* * *

Carol Peletier lost her faith a long time ago.

When she was a child, she had gone to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Her mother would dress her up in these pretty dresses and parade her in front of everyone at the church. Her daddy never went; he never had much interest for anything that didn't involve women or drinking.

After her mother died when Carol was seventeen, Carol still attended church but with less regularity. She met Ed at her church one Sunday, and for her, he was her ticket out. She ran away with him, only to discover his dark side shortly after they were married. By then it was too late to leave, and any comfort she might have gained from attending church was long gone, so she gave up and stopped going.

The next time she set foot in a church, the world had gone to hell and she was desperately searching for her little daughter, lost in a moment of chaos on a broken highway. She had half-hoped to find some shred of comfort or familiarity in the little church, but all she found was desperation and the rotting flesh of lost parishioners still garbed in their Sunday best.

It was only after Daryl Dixon risked his life to find her daughter that she began to have just the smallest amount of faith again. But even that was quickly ripped away when the deteriorating thing that used to be her daughter stumbled out of the Greene barn and into the daylight.

The year that followed was the worst yet. The winter in particular was brutal, but somehow she continued to fight. Then there was Daryl, always right beside her or just a few steps behind; never more than a stone's throw away at any given time. As the months wore on, they grew closer, and a sense of balance was restored in Carol. She missed her daughter every second of every day, but she was slowly moving on.

Then, one warm spring day, Carol found herself looking at Daryl as he paced around with Judith in his arms. The roughneck was muttering patiently to the fussy baby as he traced a thumb over her chubby cheek, and suddenly it hit her.

This was her family.


End file.
